


you think you hold the high hand (i’ve got my doubts)

by hypotheticalfanfic



Series: losers collex [3]
Category: The Losers (2010)
Genre: E for language, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Misogyny, Roque is good at his job but is not a nice person, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-04
Updated: 2021-03-04
Packaged: 2021-03-17 23:15:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,310
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29848983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hypotheticalfanfic/pseuds/hypotheticalfanfic
Summary: The Losers were Clay’s down to the bone, hand-picked, but Roque knew the score better than Clay. Always had, always would. Two years together and half a hundred successes under the belt, and Roque knew they’d make it another, eh, call it four. Maybe six, at the outside.
Relationships: Franklin Clay/William Roque
Series: losers collex [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2167029
Kudos: 5





	you think you hold the high hand (i’ve got my doubts)

**LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, USA, MODERN DAY**

The threats to mission objectives, in order of actual potential for fucking everything up, go:

1\. Jensen

2\. Cougar

3\. Pooch

4\. Clay

The threats in order of how much Roque worries about them, though:

1\. Clay

2\. Pooch

3\. Cougar

4\. Jensen

It’s not that he doesn’t think Jensen’s dangerous - he’s not stupid, that man’s terrifying. It’s just that there’s not a ton he can do to keep that one from happening. If Jensen gets a wild hare to dig through Roque’s shit, the plan’s FUBAR, so why worry about it? He can do more about Clay and PoochIf Pooch isn’t forced to look at something he’ll almost always choose not to see it. Clay thinks Pooch sees all, knows all, but Clay’s the CO and CO’s can’t see past their own shit. Clay has an excellent selective vision thing. Rule number six, don’t let yourself get distracted when your unit’s on the line. Clay never learned that rule, which is why the Losers are in this fucking mess in the first place. Nah, Clay won’t fuck up this mission until he learns what it is, and he won’t until it’s over, anyway.

But he worries about Clay nevertheless. Clay’s the least likely to forgive him, not that Roque needs it or would get it from the kids. But Clay’s a champion grudge-holder for anyone except a girl he’s fucking. When Clay learns the mission, the real mission, Roque would put even odds on a knife in the throat. But, who knows? Clay’s tired, man. They’re all tired. Maybe it’ll be fine. Still, Roque worries.

Cougar’s an enigma floating around on a sea of who-the-fuck-even-knows. More often than not he’s backup for the other guys’ stupid-ass ideas, a silent egging on, an eye on their sixes. He’ll do what Jensen does, push come to shove, but if he sees it first, Roque would put decent cash on a fast and silent death. “They started it,” indeed. Cougs is too good at his job, is the problem. Roque’d liked him right away, that first mission, the simple knife-edge of him. For Cougs, there’s his side and there’s the other side. What would be a problem, he knew, was the moment Cougar thought Roque tipped from one side of the blade to the other. The moment Cougs read Roque clearly, the moment that squint aimed at him instead of a target? That’d be a bad moment.

Roque’s tired, and hungry. He’s bored. He’s lonely. They’re so close to home they can nearly touch it, and there’s one last moment to think. Is this, he asks himself, the best way to do this? Really, really think about it. Think through your options, chief. A long moment, then he nods to himself. This is fastest, easiest, safest. This is the short line between two points, one of which is labeled “fucked” and the other of which is labeled “somewhat less fucked,” and Roque’s job is to get them to the second without losing them on the path. This is the way to do that. It’s gonna work. It’ll be fine.

* * *

**JUST OUTSIDE [CLASSIFIED], ANGOLA, FOUR YEARS AGO**

As a knife fighter proper, Roque had always been sloppy. But, and this was the important part, it was a purposeful sloppy. He knew how to do it “right,” but it was more fun to do big, showy swings, to use his upper body as the muscle it looked like, use his weight as the engine behind his strikes. When called for, he could be compact and careful and slow, sure, but where’s the fun in that? Redirecting energy worked more in his favor: make the guy work against himself, make him think it’s his idea. Easier, more fun, and you get to look cool doing it. Rule number five, don’t work harder than you need to. But, and this is important, make it look like you’re working real, real hard so nobody thinks twice. If you can make it look like you’re working real hard on something you’re not even doing, all the better. Jensen did card tricks sometimes, same principle: a little flash, a little wave, distract the eye. Roque’s good at that shit.

They’ve been on this particular jaunt all goddamn week, and Roque was over it after about two seconds. Roque is in his shitty bunk, staring up at the slats beneath Cougar’s shitty bunk, listening to Clay snore and Jensen mutter. This building was, allegedly, secure enough to sleep in. The worthless guys Clay hadn’t vetted well enough were finally out of the picture. That weird blip in their comms, Jensen thought was deal-with-able given a couple extra days, so that would work. Pooch was homesick and being annoying about it, but—a plan, Half of one, anyway. Should be fine.

“Hey, Cougar,” he said, grabbed a a tennis ball from beneath his bunk, started caroming it off the berth above him. “Cougar. Cougs. Alvarez comma Carlos aka Cougar. Cougs.”

The sniper finally flipped, stared down at him. “What.” Murderous, and Roque just grinned.

Kept bouncing. “Remember when you shot out the landing gear of a flying plane? With a shotgun? Out the window of a moving car?”

Cougar blinked. “Good times.”

“What are you doing up? Go to sleep, man,” Roque said, bouncing the ball even harder. “Big day tomorrow.”

“Get fucked,” Cougar said. Rolled back over, disappeared from the edge of the berth. Roque heard Pooch wake, start to softly talk to Cougs, start smoothing ruffled feathers. “Fur,” Roque muttered to himself, half a laugh. Kept up the bouncing until he heard Pooch shift into full-on soothing mode, then finally stopped. Good. Time for shut-eye. Got a million things to do in the morning and with any luck Cougar's residual pissed-off-edness will race them through that particularly thorny section in the third part of the plan. 

* * *

**FORT BENNING, GEORGIA, USA, SIX YEARS AGO**

Roque had many admirable skills if he said so himself. Good with a knife, good with explosives, good as hell with anyone he needed to put in their place. Long-term planning was not, had never been one of them. That was why he had the military, and then the Losers. Why he had Clay, the last in a long line of people who saw big picture and needed a knife to clear their way there. Clay wasn’t great at the hard, grinding work of a plan, wasn’t interested in the details near as often as he should have been. Clay’s habit was to make a grand pronouncement and then watch the Losers figure out how to do it. Not the worst way to run a unit, Roque could attest, but one that meant when problems started cooking it was hard for the CO to step in. Too hands-off for too long.

Roque had seen Clay right away: someone who thrived in the structure of the Army, but hated it, too. Someone who felt right when he was there but better when he was in the field. Roque wasn’t that way; war was profitable, and he got a socially acceptable reason to carry a shit ton of knives and to kill people, so.

The Losers were Clay’s down to the bone, hand-picked, but Roque knew the score better than Clay. Always had, always would. Two years together and half a hundred successes under the belt, and Roque knew they’d make it another, eh, call it four. Maybe six, at the outside. Then something would fuck up, if it hadn’t already.

Ranked by likelihood to cause the group to fuck up:

1\. Clay

Then a big goddamned gap before

2\. Roque (rule number four, be well aware of your own shortcomings)

3\. Jensen (not because he was inherently unstable, though he was, and not because he delighted in destabilizing anything he could, though he did, but because Roque could picture the exact face Jensen would make when some higher-up pissed him off enough to burn the whole Army down around himself)

4\. Cougar (if Jensen jumped off a bridge, so would Cougs)

5\. Pooch (frankly Pooch didn’t even belong on the list, except that in theory if he ever put in for a reassignment they’d be fucked all to hell and back without him)

So Roque did the necessary. Kept Clay off the very worst paths, nudged him a little more toward thinking and a little less toward feeling. Pointed Pooch where he was needed, kept his shore leave frequent and his crazy ass sated with dumb shit to do. Poked Jensen hard to give him a narrow target and to keep Cougar aimed, too; better his boots suddenly half an inch too small than some five-star general’s dirty laundry up the flagpole. Watched himself, too. When his knives got too sharp and shiny, found Clay and released some tension, or something of equivalent danger. Keep the party going, keep the gears turning, that’s his whole raison d’etre. Been like that forever.

* * *

**SANTIAGO, CHILE, THREE YEARS AGO**

“You think they’re fucking yet?” Clay’s not a chatter, not post-fooling around anyway. Roque blinked fast, surprised.

“The kids?”

“Minus Pooch.”

Roque rolled his eyes hard, turned to grab his skivvies. “Nah, Clay, Pooch is the baloney in that sandwich.”

Clay lay back, laughed hard, and Roque let himself look for just a second. They were nearly exactly the same age, but where Clay had thick streaks of grey all over his beard and chest, Roque still looked about the same. But when Clay laughed, he looked like a kid, like he’s Pooch’s age, like nothing bad has ever happened to him. Roque allowed Clay to pull him back in, allowed the night to last a little longer. Gotta fulfill the needs of each person in the unit and the unit as a whole, and Roque was a big enough man to admit when he had his own goddamn needs, too.

When this happened, which wasn’t often, Roque always felt a little surprised. Clay got plenty of tail, everywhere they went, and Roque did, too. When he wanted, when he decided to try. But he thought, sometimes, that Clay looked at him and saw something he didn’t see in women. Roque wasn’t, probably, going to set Clay’s car on fire. Wasn’t, probably, going to leave Clay hog-tied at an actual hog farm (had that been Sandra? No, Selene). Wasn’t, almost certainly, going to dump Clay and flee. Where would Roque go? Nowhere good. So, no, Roque was in his own way a safe option. Clay must have seen that, too.

Plus, Roque knows his own looks. He’s not blind, that Angolan trafficker’s best efforts having failed, and mirrors aren’t rare or anything. So Clay picked him, sometimes, and Roque was far from hesitant. But it worked best when it was rare, a thrum of low electric possibility; if they let it get regular or steady, it’d turn to something Clay felt suffocated by, felt like he was choking on. So Roque did the necessary. Did what was needed. Had a damn good time, kept it set at just the right levels, watched Clay flourish. If he had a different XO, he'd be dead already; Roque wasn't about to let that shit happen on his watch.

* * *

**MIAMI, FLORIDA, USA, TWO YEARS AGO**

The kids are drunk. Clay is hammered. Roque is….inebriated. Sure. Go with that. There’s almost certainly no more tequila at hand, in this bar. Roque’s Spanish is getting worse, and Cougar’s getting talkative; Jensen’s getting handsy with everyone in reach and Pooch is getting maudlin, and Clay—Roque needs an eye on Clay, stands, starts recon.

They’ve been in the US too long. Clay wanted them back there, some bullshit about roots and remembering, and Roque had allowed him to go on with the stupid idea, had booked the logistical nightmare that was getting the Losers lodging that was secure and discreet and also near somewhere they could scare up some fights if they needed. This place was okay. Hot women, easy access to booze. Too close to certain other illicit substances, so he’d had to keep a good solid eye on Clay most of the time, and half an eye on Jensen at the same time. One more night here, and they’d be off to Yellowknife and some actual work. Get them through this, one more time. Roque could do anything once. Jensen drapes himself over Roque’s back, snuggles into his neck.

“Man, you’re cool. You have so many knives! That’s so cool!”

Roque lets himself laugh. The kid’s all right. Ah! There the boss is, getting pulled out the door. Good, Roque’s pretty sure that woman was more likely to bite than shoot, so that will be okay. He doesn’t know where she’s staying but Clay prefers his own room, so he can keep an eye later. Cougar already stole two girls from Jensen and disappeared downstairs, that’s fine. Pooch will keep an eye on the kid if no one tells him not to, so Roque slips Jensen back into a barstool. Steps away, hands empty, and Roque, for half a heartbeat, is drifting. A paralyzing sense of empty air. There wasn’t anything specific for him to do. There wasn’t a plan. He is alone, and no one is about to reach out and point him somewhere. So he started a fight.

Ruined Cougar’s night, broke another pair of Jensen’s glasses, got Pooch’s nose all bent again. But that’s okay. He can work with that. Laughs with the kids as they salvage what they can from Clay’s car, books them the next flight to Kuala Lumpur for a six-week recon gig. It’s gonna blow up in their faces, of course, and they’ll probably all get killed, but at least it’s something. Not fuckin’ a night of quiet drinking in Florida.

* * *

**THREE DAYS’ DRIVE OUTSIDE [CLASSIFIED], BOLIVIA, FIVE MONTHS AGO**

Fuck. _Fuck_!

Get them out, get them to ground, get them a back room to freak out in. Don’t worry about the rest of it, we’ll deal with that when we find a corner to set up in. Clay’s catatonic, Cougs is worse, Jensen’s scrambling trying to find something, anything to pull, any thread that’s dangling. Pooch is cold and closed off, and that’s the worst, honestly. Put Pooch at item one. Throw Cougs into Jensen’s hands, make the kid focus there. Roque can’t look at Clay yet. Get Pooch set first.

That takes all goddamn night. Pooch is fucked. He finally gets the kid and Cougar to snuggle up around the Pooch - they sorted each other out some, like the codependent not-yet-fucking losers they are. They’ve got the space.

Clay’s not looking at anyone. Clay’s not mad, not planning vengeance, not even crying. Clay’s just gone. “Boss.” No response. “Boss.” Roque pulls Clay up the wall, gets him eye level. “Goddammit, Clay, we need you here. We need a plan. What are we going to do?”

Clay blinks once, twice. “Kill Max.”

“Sure, yeah,” he’s fucking talking, that’s progress. “We will, boss. But right fucking now, Clay.” Every little bit helped. Rage, revenge, sure. He can work with that.

A big, deep breath, and Roque lets him slip back down to stand. Clay snaps into form, mostly, if you don’t look too close. Roque has four hundred things to do and he needs Clay to at least manifest some touch of control. He needs time and space to work, to get the kids back up, to get whatever Clay means by “kill Max” set into something like a plan.

The back quarter of his brain knows Clay’s fucked, they’re all fucked, they’re gonna die in Bolivia and no one is going to mourn any of them, but fuck that part of his brain. Focus on the immediate so you have room to plan the next. Cougar whispers something, and Roque just happens to catch it. It’s some prayer or other. Probably for those fucking kids. Roque’s gonna look at that later. Top item for now: get Clay to give a shit about the present moment. Tomorrow’s shit, tomorrow’s plate. Rule number three: don’t borrow tomorrow’s shit until you’ve eaten a chunk of today’s. And if tomorrow’s gonna have extra, clean your goddamn plate today.

* * *

**LA PAZ, BOLIVIA, A LITTLE LESS THAN FOUR MONTHS AGO**

Goddammit, Clay. No point to any of this anymore. The kids are done. Clay’s done. Roque’s not buying this chick’s bullshit. Take care of the unit. Do the necessary, even when your CO thinks otherwise, rule number two. His unit above all else. Lust for revenge is all well and good, and it helped keep Clay pointed roughly right this quarter of a year, but time’s running out and there’s no way it’s gonna work. Not the way Clay’s thinking. Not the way the kids would like. It’s just not gonna work. Roque’s done the math, over and over, thought through every bullshit idea Clay’s puked up over shitty drinks and worse food. Roque’s watched the kids slip slow but sure down into a place he isn’t sure, anymore, he can get them out of. If Cougar’s said more than ten words in a sitting in four months, Roque’ll eat one of his own knives and smile. Pooch is quiet, too. Jensen’s louder, tries to make up the difference, and it irks.

There’s another way. He’s let this ride long enough. No more fucking around, time to do the necessary. Jensen’s too smart, Roque can’t ask him; isn’t oblique enough, never has been. Lucky he’s made a couple friends in Bolivia even worse than himself. It’s not fun, what he does to get the email address he needs, and Roque puts it on the list of things for which he can never atone. That’s fine. Long list. He can work with that.

Drunk again. Needs to stop doing this. Sober Roque is smart Roque, and smart Roque’s chances of mission success are sky high. Clay’s drunk less than he is these days, not always but enough, and that shit will not pass muster. Gotta track the trajectories here, and can’t do that if breakfast was a shot to chase the dinner spread last night. Hair of the dog is bullshit.

* * *

**LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA, USA, PRESENT DAY**

Shit in a goddamn trash can. This might actually work.

He leaves the meet; thank the tiny baby Jesus and his unicorn fuckin’ friends that Cougs is busy painting that bullshit helicopter. Jensen’ll be drooling over the chick, so she’ll be corralled just fine. Clay’ll be sleeping off another hangover; the flip to US time fucked him up like it always did.

Roque buys a cheap, shitty hamburger just because he can. A goddamned American hamburger, limp excuse for a patty and a pickle, and it’s the best thing he’s eaten in four and a half months. He did this free, clear, and with some time to spare. Picks up some donuts for the unit, none for the chick. Thinks better of it - gets her some, too, of way less quality. Takes a slow, careful bite out of the best one in her set

The kids’ll be okay. He’s gotta remember that. They’ll be okay. They’re not gonna know until they need to know. With any luck, he’ll get them on his side, and they’ll get to go the fuck home. Mission over. Get the Pooch to Mrs. Pooch, get Cougs and Jensen wherever they wanna go. Get Clay somewhere so he can let loose on the world again, probably nearly kill Roque but almost certainly not finish the job. They’ll work it out. They always do.

This better work. It’s gonna work. This’ll be fine. They’ll thank him when it’s done. Rule number one: if no one hates you when you’re done, you didn’t do the right thing. Right?

**Author's Note:**

> title from “Pigs that Ran Straightaway into the Water, Triumph of” by the Mountain Goats
> 
> > Yeah, but you're going to do what you want to do,  
> > no matter what I ask of you.  
> > You think you hold the high hand, I've got my doubts.  
> > I come from Chino, where the asphalt sprouts.


End file.
